


Gotham’s Knight

by MissScorp



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, The Dark Knight
Genre: Angst, Death, Drama, Fixes the gap Nolan left, Friendship, Gen, Grief, Mayhem, Movie: The Dark Knight (2008), Murder, Mystery, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-07 19:48:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19216303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/pseuds/MissScorp
Summary: Three dead bodies dressed as Batman force the Dark Knight out of his self-imposed exile.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all, and welcome!
> 
> This story is set right at the end of The Dark Knight but is meant to explore a bit of that deplorable time gap that Nolan created for between TDK and The Dark Knight Rises. Everything after the first chapter is just an imagination of events that could have occurred if Nolan had been planning ahead and wanted to do a third movie (he didn’t). I never bought Bruce hiding for eight years or the Joker not continuing to screw with him. So, this was born.
> 
> Please, if you like this story, click the kudo/bookmark buttons! Also, feel free to comment below. I love hearing from people!

"Batman?" James Jr. called as the darkly clad hero tore off in the opposite direction of the cops coming towards them. "Batman?" A frown pulled at his brow. "Dad?" He lifted confused eyes to his. "Why's he running away?"

Police Commissioner James Gordon considered his son's question as police dogs barked and strained against the leashes held in the fists of men woefully ignorant about what happened in this warehouse. Shouts and lights flashed as officers caught sight of the man fleeing the scene of not one, but two horrific deaths.

The only thing he knew for certain was that the wounds that caped figure sustained over the course of that evening would never heal. They went too deep, carved too big a hole inside a heart and soul already bearing more than any one person should. Gordon stared off into the darkness, imagining the pain and regrets they'd both shoulder in the years to come while trying to answer his son's desperately phrased question with as much honesty as he could.

"He runs because we have to chase him."

_I have to chase him_ , he corrected silently as officers and EMS personnel swarmed into what remained of the hulled out warehouse. _To give Gotham what it needs, I have to hunt him. Treat him as if he's one of the vermin infecting this city with evil_.

"But why?" In the shadows, his son's eyes were twin pools of fear and uncertainty. "Why do you have to chase him? He didn't do anything wrong. It was…"

"I know it was, son." He hated cutting his son off but he had no choice. Nobody could ever know what really happened here. _About what Harvey Dent had been about to do_. He swallowed back the lump that was equal parts bitterness and regret. "It's what _I_ have to do. It's my job. I have to bring him to justice."

_Because if I don't, a lot of bad people will get put back on the streets_. He didn't tell James Jr. that, though. His son wouldn't understand that to keep the animals locked in their cages that a good man usurped the responsibility for a lot of bad deeds.

"Why, though, Dad?" James Jr. asked with the persistence of a child who refused to accept the reason that his father gave him for why something had to happen. "I don't understand why you have to chase Batman. He saved us. Why do you have to chase him?"

Gordon ran a hand through his hair, desperately craving a cigarette and a stiff shot of whiskey, and knowing he couldn't have either one. Not at that moment, anyway. He needed a clear head to answer his son's question. To answer all the questions that he'd be expected to answer.

Only, he didn't know how to answer his son any better than he could the people who'd want to know what happened here. Was there a way for him to make his son understand that while Batman performed the selfless act of a real hero, he still had to treat him like a criminal?

_Like the Joker_.

He shoved thoughts of that animal from his mind. There'd be time to think about the Joker once everything got said and done. For now, he focused on figuring out a way to make sense of the good guy becoming the bad guy so the bad guy could get lauded as the good guy.

How could he make James Jr. understand something that he, himself, could barely comprehend? All he could do, he realized as beams of light fell on them, was try. Trying was easier said than done. _How do I explain that the reason for why the man who risked his life to save his is now the bad guy is because it's what an entire city needs_? _That rather than giving Gotham the hero it deserves that he chose to become what it needed him to become so that it'd have the hope it needs to survive the days ahead_?

"Son..."

"What did Batman do that was so wrong?"

"He…"

"Didn't he save a lot of people tonight? Didn't he stop the Joker?"

Gordon wanted to assure his son Batman hadn't done anything wrong. That he did everything a good man would do when he saw an act of injustice being carried out. He ached to tell him that, in fact. However, he couldn't give his son the _real_ answer. He couldn't tell him that while Batman did save a lot of people that evening, _him_ especially, that it didn't change anything. It didn't stop what needed to happen from happening.

Nothing could.

No, he could never tell James Jr. — or anyone for that matter — how it wasn't Batman who failed Gotham.

It was Harvey Dent.

_Our_ w _hite knight_.

The words left a foul taste in his mouth. Why shouldn't they? Harvey Dent proclaimed to all and sundry he'd clean up the streets of Gotham by not only locking away all the criminals, but seeing they stayed where they belonged. How could he tell his son, as well as the people of this city that the man who promised to rid their city of all its criminals had become one?

The man once lauded for his high moralistic integrity, principles, and incorruptibility became so twisted by his rage and grief that he allowed himself to become as sick and twisted as the very freak who took everything from him. _Telling him that the death of Rachel was my fault, begging him to punish me instead of my family didn't sway him_.

Nothing would stop him from seeing those he felt responsible for everything taken away from him punished.

Everything Harvey stood for, everything he spent the last few months fighting for, that Rachel Dawes ended up dying for, would become undone if the city ever learned about the _real_ Dent. The one who opted to become a monster bent on obtaining vengeance instead of the man who fought to get justice for himself and the woman he loved in the courts he once dominated.

In the end, the Joker did what he promised he would: he beat them. It wasn't a fact Gordon could hide, much as he'd have liked too. The print media published photos of the warehouse where Rachel Dawes died. The news stations all reported the grievous injuries Dent sustained. Even without the rest of the story being told, the city knew the Joker won.

He took Dent from them.

Locking the Joker away in the deepest, darkest cell he could find to put him wouldn't be near enough punishment for all the suffering he caused. All the misery. Even death is too kind for that son of a bitch. Nothing would ever make up for how the Joker took the man who was supposedly the best of them and turned him into the very worst of them.

Not that Gotham would ever hear about that part of the tale. They'd never be told about what really happened in this warehouse. How Harvey Dent placed the worth of a child's life — _my son's life_ , he thought savagely — on the outcome of a coin toss.

A coin that landed heads up _after_ Batman chose to act.

_If he hadn't acted when he did_ … Gordon didn't bother with finishing that thought. His son was alive and that was all that mattered. _No_ , he realized as his wife pulled James Jr. into her arms and held him tight, _nobody would ever know about what good Batman did tonight_. They'd never know about the number of people he saved or the crisis he helped avert.

Gordon knew that once the dust settled that the people at City Hall would begin looking for someone they could blame this all on. Someone they could point to as the cause for what happened. Someone they could hold up as their example of what was wrong with Gotham.

Someone they could condemn.

_He knew that_ , Gordon thought as shouts sounded in the distance. _He knew he'd be the one they'll choose to blame._ What was truth and what was right took a backseat to necessity. He had to sweep what happened under the rug. Lie. Tell people it was Batman who killed Dent and all the others. Why? Because the truth wasn't always good enough.

_They gazed down at Dent's body, pale and still in the faint bit of light coming from the moon._

_"We bet it all on him. Everything we did, undone. Whatever chance there was of us fixing Gotham dies with him."_

_"No. The Joker cannot win." Batman crouched beside Dent's body and gently turned his head so the unmarred side of his face was visible. "Gotham needs a true hero."_

_"I don't understand." Gordon stared at the caped figure. "You can't mean…"_

_"I do."_

_"You can't."_

_"I can." Batman rose and faced him. "I can because I'm not a hero. Not like Dent. I killed those people."_

_"No!" Fury pulsed beneath his skin. "You can't! You're not taking the blame for what he did!._

_"This is what Gotham needs me to become."_

_"They'll hunt you."_

_"You'll hunt me," he corrected. "You'll condemn me. That's what needs to happen."_

_"Why're you doing this?"_

_"Because sometimes the truth isn't good enough," he said as shouts sounded in the distance. "Sometimes, people deserve more"._

His only solace was that there'd come a day when the truth would be revealed. _I will see to it that people know what really happened_. _I will make sure that people know who the real hero was tonight_.

How was he to explain that to his son, though? He prided himself on teaching his children the difference between right and wrong. Yet, there he was, about to tell the hugest lie ever. Guilt hounded him as he crouched down in front of his son, settled not quite steady hands on his thin shoulders, and stared into his accusatory eyes.

"Son, while Batman is the hero that Gotham deserves, he's not the one that the city needs. Not right now."

"But…" He frowned. "He's the one who saved me."

"He knows that he is."

"Then why're you treating him like he's the bad guy?"

The accusation cut him, deeply. It was an honest question. How could he treat a good man as a bad one? _Because I don't have any other choice_.

"I have to treat him like the bad guy despite the good he's done."

"Why?"

Gordon sighed and finally gave his son the only answer remaining.

"This is the only way we can give the city what it needs the most: _hope_."

"Because of what the Joker did?" He glanced back at Dent. "Because of what he was gonna do to me?"

"Yes." He squeezed his shoulders gently. "So, we'll hunt Batman, call him things which you and I will know aren't true. Because while Batman is not the hero that Gotham needs, he is our silent guardian, our watchful protector... our Dark Knight."

James Jr. slowly nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer despite how flimsy it was.

"Do you think he'll be back one day?" His face brightened with the very hope that Batman hoped to inspire with his choice to become the villain. "Do you think he will help you again?"

"Yes, son," Gordon said honestly. "I do think he will come back."

"When?"

A smile curved his lips.

"When the time is right and Gotham needs him to rise again." Gordon slowly rose to his feet. "He will. He'll be there to protect the city and its people."

"You're sure?"

"Yes." He patted his shoulder. "Good hero's watch and wait for when they're needed."

Even as he spoke those words, though, Gordon found himself wondering if they were true. Was he right? Would they see Batman again? Like all of Gotham, he often found himself wondering about the man whose face he had never seen. _Will we ever see you again_? he wondered, eyes searching for a glimpse of that figure cloaked all in black.

Gotham's true hero.

Her Dark Knight.

 


	2. Chapter 2

His breath came in tattered gasps. Pain radiated through every inch of his body. Blood oozed out to coat his midsection, dripped down his thigh. Staining his flesh, his suit, his memories. A break in the haze trying to take over his mind brought a reminder from Alfred about knowing his limits.

Batman didn't have limits.

He couldn't afford them.

His vision started to pass from red to gray. He couldn't afford to stop and rest, though. He couldn't even pause long enough to call the only person who'd come to his aid. He couldn't chance it, couldn't risk putting Alfred in any more danger than he already was.

What he feared most had come to pass. He failed. Failed to save Harvey Dent. Failed to protect Rachel. He would not fail his city, as well. He'd give Gotham the hope it needed. He'd give it something to believe in. A martyr they could rally behind. Allowing them to think of him as the monster who murdered dozens of innocent people gave Gotham the hero it needed.

That it deserved.

He experienced flashes of dizziness now. Pain rippled as he leaped from one cobbled roof to the next. He gave up reaching the Batpod when dozens of squad cars came out of nowhere to give chase. He wouldn't allow any more innocent people to get hurt. Not on account of him. He felt a stickiness from where the Joker stabbed him forming a film on his thigh.

The wound wasn't superficial. It went deep. Deeper even than the bullet that pierced his armor, and tore into his body. He had no idea how much blood he lost at that point. He needed medical attention.

Desperately.

He didn't have long before exhaustion would send him tumbling into the oblivion waiting to claim him. Maybe he had long enough to find a place to lay low for a few days. To recuperate and regroup. He gathered himself, went to leap to another roof but he didn't jump far enough...

Heaping piles of garbage and other refuse lining the alley broke his fall. His body slammed into the mountain of trash, spooking out an old gray tabby cat while it hunted for its nightly feast.

He lay there amidst the fetid waste, gasping for every breath, and trying not to throw up what little contents were in his stomach. He mentally scanned his body, seeking out if he had broken bones on top of the rest of his injuries.

He didn't.

At least, he didn't have any that he could detect. He worked his way out of the mounds of offal and struggled to regain his balance. He let out a low groan as he staggered down the street. A figure swam into his visual field. He stopped and tried to focus on them but couldn't make out more than blurs and moving shadows.

"Are you okay, Batman?" he heard them — _her_ , he realized — ask. "You took a pretty serious fall. Maybe you should sit down and let things settle."

The lilt of the Irish in her voice made him think of emerald hills and stone castles. He obviously had a concussion. He stepped off the sidewalk, a haggard, broken, armor-clad figure with blood staining the pavement in tear-shaped drops.

"Help me," he managed in a hoarse whisper before sinking to his knees. "Please."

Gentle hands grabbed at him before he toppled face forward in the gutter. She whispered something but he didn't know what. All he could focus on was the night-blooming jasmine that wafted up to soothe and settle his frayed nerves.

He tried to gather his strength, tried to push back to his feet, but his vision dimmed, and what little of his strength remained finally gave out. He sank against the warm softness holding him up and gave himself over to the demons waiting to claim his dark soul. Damnation was what he deserved for all his failures. The last thing he remembered before nirvana claimed him was her pleading with him too, "Stay with me."

…

Erin Tate dragged in a ragged breath and wrapped her arms about herself as she continued her slow pace beside the bed. Seated in the overstuffed recliner by the window would be a more comfortable way to continue her vigil but she didn't dare move even a few inches from the man fighting the hounds of hell for his soul.

The wind howled and slapped against the window. Erin fought not to do the same. She called in every favor, pleaded and begged, and even lied to get the things she needed to treat his injuries. Whatever she needed to do for him, she'd do.

She stitched closed the knife wound in his thigh, dug the bullet out of his midsection, and cleaned, as well as, dressed both wounds. What antibiotics she had left she had given him the night before. She would call the clinic in the morning to see if Malia would give her more. For now, she'd rely on whatever her mind, her mother's books on homeopathic remedies, and the internet said would help him.

It had been over a week since Batman collapsed in her arms outside her brownstone. He swam in and out of consciousness during much of that time. She walked over to check his IV. It was half full. She'd have to change the bag before the night was through.

Her minuscule and fumbling efforts were enough to hold him to life thus far, but it was only the beginning of what Erin suspected would be a long, and tiresome battle with the Grim Reaper. The only thing she was thankful for was that the bullet in his abdomen had not penetrated deep. She suspected the reason for that was because of whatever protectants he built into his suit. Those elements were all that kept that bullet from being fatal.

She glanced at the clock. It was almost time to bathe his body with water she'd infuse with chamomile, lavender, jasmine, passion flowers, and several types of mint. The poultices she made from sea salt to stave off infection, and promote healing would also need changing.

Sighing, Erin turned to walk the short distance to the window. She was in need of a change in scenery. For a change in perspective. Thoughts were spinning around in her head, some faster than that Scrambler ride she loved as a kid. She couldn't concentrate on anything, really. She was far too consumed by the terrifying prospect that the man in her bed might not awaken from the deep sleep he had fallen into. If he died there'd be questions.

Lots of questions.

Most she had no idea how to answer.

How was she to explain to the good people of Gotham about why she chose to bring the city's most wanted man into her home? How did she justify why she chose to nurse his injuries when he stood accused of not only being an accessory to the murder of Assistant District Attorney Rachel Dawes but the attempted murder of District Attorney Harvey Dent?

How did she explain why she was choosing to shelter a man who their highest city officials all labeled as the cause for why dozens of innocent Gothamites were dead?

She couldn't.

She wouldn't.

Quite simply, she didn't hold with the general opinion about Batman being the one to blame for the chaos which so recently engulfed the city. In her opinion, Gotham and her people were ignorant about what really happened ten days ago. The lies being fed to them by their city officials convinced them Batman was the one to blame.

Here, inside her tiny one bedroom apartment in the Narrows was another story entirely. Erin didn't blame the man in her bed. She knew that corruption and crime went together like peanut butter and jelly. They complemented the other. _And this city's plagued by both_ , she thought as she stared out the window at the storm-ravaged world outside. The infection started at the top of high society and ran throughout the city. _The GCPD is full of it_ , she thought as a squad car drove by.

Her brother, Ethan, told her about several cops he knew were on the take. That's why blaming Batman for the Joker's actions, for his pathological madness, and hunger for anarchy made no sense to her. It was illogical to blame Batman for what that man chose to do. Dozens of murderers had left a trail of bodies in their wake over the years. Victor Zsaszstarted terrorizing Gotham long before Batman showed up.

Blaming Batman was nothing but sheer, outright scapegoating on the part of their illustrious Mayor. He chose to place the blame on the man passed out in her bed so he could cover up his, and his luckiest culpability and involvement. Every interview he gave, he called Batman a murderer. Erin didn't believe that was true.

_He didn't kill the Joker despite having many chances to do so_ , she thought while staring up at the flashes of light playing peek-a-boo among the thick clouds. _Nor did he harm any of the police officers who pursued him_.

Not that the people calling for his head stopped to consider any of those facts. _Not that they care about things like facts_ , she realized, a frown pulling her eyebrows down over the bridge of her nose. Someone needed to pay for what happened. To Miss Dawes and the district attorney. To Commissioner Loeb and Judge Surillo. To all the cops and innocent people caught in the melee.

The Mayor and his cronies convinced the citizens of Gotham that this man was the one to hold accountable. As if he hadn't paid enough. A myriad of scars marred his otherwise smooth flesh. Dozens of ridges and burrs beneath his skin told her his nocturnal career came with a hefty price tag.

_He's only a man_ , she thought as she rest her forehead against the cool windowpane. _He can get beaten, bested, and broken on any given night of the week_. A soft cry from behind her drew her attention. _Another nightmare's coming_ , she realized with a pang.

He mumbled something she couldn't quite make out. It sounded like a name, but she couldn't be sure. He had said a number of things she hadn't understood while she treated him. Most she chalked up as the irrationality brought on by trauma.

She walked to the bed and laid her fingers against his cheek. His skin was warm, but not overly so. No fever. A good sign. A positive one. It meant her treatments were working. _Well_ , she amended with a faint grimace. _They're keeping him tethered to life_. She accomplished a lot for someone without hospital equipment or an entire team of doctors to do the work for her. _Long as he doesn't develop an infection or a fever,_ she thought as she resumed pacing beside the bed. _He will pull through._

If he developed any complications, she didn't know what she'd do. It wasn't like she could take him to a hospital. Not without his ending up under arrest. _Or worse_ , she realized, quelling a shudder. There were plenty of people angry enough they'd shoot first and ask questions later. _Long as he remains here_ , she decided, hands balling into fists. _He's safe_.

And here she'd remain until he awakened. Until she knew he was safely out of danger.

Because she didn't care what Gotham believed Batman had done.

All she knew was that beneath the cowl and the suit was a flesh and blood man. A man fighting death with every ounce of strength left in his bruised and battered body. A man whose blood coated her hands, stained her best sheets, and dotted her apartment floor. A man who pleaded with her to help him before his own strength failed him.

That plea for aide was the only thing that mattered to her.

Somewhere near dawn, he began to mumble and thrash about in the bed. Fearing he'd tear his stitches, Erin hurried to his side. She placed her hand against his cheek and found his flesh burning to the touch. Her spirits plummeted as her worst fear became a brutal reality.

He spiked a fever.

Infection was the most likely reason for why. Fighting it would sap what little strength he had. She had to bring his temperature down quickly. To do that, she needed to find the source and treat it. The hands of the clock were already ticking when Erin set to work. Yet, it was the eerie howls of those hellish hounds that served the devil that terrified her the most.


	3. Chapter 3

Jim Gordon had another long night. It was just one of a handful he had over the course of the last week. He crawled into bed sometime after three, lay still for a while before he got up, smoked a cigarette as he paced in front of his son's empty bed before laying back down.

He gave up pretending to try to sleep by four-thirty.

_Now's as good a time as any to go to work_ , he decided as he scrubbed a hand over his face. He dressed and scribbled a note for Barbara just in case she changed her mind and came home, tacked it on the refrigerator, and drove through the semi-deserted streets to the grotesque building that was now the scene of two gristly deaths.

There was nobody here to pay homage to the man and woman who had their lives tragically cut short by the maniacally manipulative man awaiting trial from his private cell. The warehouse sat silent as the tomb it was, the secrets of what it knew nothing but faint whispers on the breeze that slid through his hair.

What really happened here was a story he shared with one other person. A man who sacrificed his own reputation to give the city of Gotham what he believed it so desperately needed. Batman's selfless act was all that was preserving the name and reputation of Harvey Dent.

_And it's all one big fat lie_.

Fury and grief surged within him. Harvey Dent had been a man he considered a friend, an ally. He believed in Dent. In everything, the District Attorney stood for. He imagined what the city might have been once Dent managed to clear away the filth running its streets. All of that ceased the moment Dent put a revolver to his son's head and placed whether he'd live or die on the toss of a coin.

Nobody knew about that part of the story. They'd never know about it. It was part of the truth he needed to conceal to give Gotham the hope, and the hero it needed.

_Needed_ , Gordon thought darkly. _But most definitely not the hero it actually deserves._

No, the hero Gotham deserved was now an outlaw on the run from the very system he had fought on the side of. It was the other part of the lie Gordon felt compelled to tell to preserve the illusion needed to maintain law and order. The only slight bit of truth he had been able to tell was how Dent had shot Batman with his gun after he'd been knocked to the ground. Even that, though, got coated in a half-truth.

_Will Gotham ever know the truth about what happened here that night_? Gordon wondered as he slowly turned his car and headed to the precinct. _Will the people of Gotham ever know about what you did?_

Would they ever forgive them for the lies they told?

Gordon sure as hell hoped so.

…

It had been ten days since Alfred heard from Master Bruce. Even them all he received was one hasty call telling him Harvey Dent had become a pawn in the game being played by the madman terrorizing the city. Like the rest of Gotham, Alfred hadn't been able to do anything but hold his breath while the police and Batman raced to stop the Joker from accomplishing whatever it was he planned.

When Bruce told him Dent held Gordon's wife and children at the warehouse where Miss Dawes got murdered, he was left stunned. He hadn't believed such a moralistic and upstanding man could have done such a thing. His skepticism gave way to shock when the news reports slowly trickled in, all of them saying Dent was murdered by Batman.

Not for one minute did Alfred Pennyworth believe his employer killed the District Attorney. Master Bruce was many things, and some Alfred routinely lamented over, but a cold-blooded killer was just not one of them. Aerial footage from that night showed Batman racing away from the warehouse. Where he was, and if he was okay, Alfred didn't know. The worry was beginning to take a toll on him.

He turned just as an image of a cheap looking Batman cowl set atop a coffin being lowered into a grave appeared on the television screen. Alfred's heart stopped as the question he dreaded splashed across the screen in big, bold letters.

**BATMAN DEAD?**

Alfred picked up the remote and turned up the volume. The image changed from the macabre image of that plastic mask with its misshapen eyeholes staring blankly from that hellish pit to a well-groomed anchorman.

" _Police have confirmed today that the vigilante known as Batman is dead. His identity has yet to be released, but the mood today at the Major Crimes Unit was a celebratory one. Investigative reporter Lindsay Vickers spoke with Detective Jeffrey Ho_ —"

Alfred switched off the television and sat there. He told himself if Master Bruce was dead that he'd have known about it long before the news aired it. The police would have knocked down the penthouse doors as soon as they discovered Batman's identity and arrested him as an accomplice.

That left three thoughts on his mind: _who is the man the police claim as Batman_? _Where is Master Bruce_? And _lastly, why hasn't he returned home or called?_

…

Lucius Fox sat in his office, listening to the news broadcast while he looked out over the slowly waking city. He didn't believe Bruce Wayne capable of murder. No more than he thought him dead or arrested. Lucius didn't think he'd be sitting in this chair and preparing for an early morning conference call if Wayne got captured by the police.

Not that he believed Wayne would ever name him as an accomplice. Oh, no, he didn't believe that at all.

He might have doubted the man's nocturnal alter-ego and questioned the lengths to which Batman would go to stop the Joker, but he did not question the honor of Bruce Wayne, himself.

That left two questions on Lucius's mind as he watched the sun creep over the horizon: _who is the man the police think is Batman_? And finally, _where is Bruce Wayne_?

…

Erin fell asleep somewhere around dawn on the tenth day of Batman's long ordeal, her small hand clamped around his larger one. As if by holding onto him she could keep the reaper from coming to take him. She jolted awake when a truck backfired outside her window. She sat up with a groan, her head throbbing from a combination of lack of sleep, stress, and way too much caffeine. Immediately, she checked on her patient.

His fever continued to rage.

Disappointment mingled with the balls of anxiety jumping rope in her belly. She used every technique at her disposal, tried every solution she could find in a book or on the internet for how best to bring his fever under control. Finally, in desperation, she called her mother to ask her what more she could do.

Her mother, a holistic nurse for the last twenty-five years told her she had done everything, she, herself, would have done, and that all she could do now was to wait.

Sitting and watching, listening as someone fought the devil for his soul was the most difficult thing she had ever done. Erin lifted her head to stare at his masked countenance. The sight of his pain, the sound of it, carved dozens of holes in her heart. She hated seeing anything, anyone, in pain. Especially someone who had done so much and gotten so little back.

She reached over and laid her fingers against his cheek. His skin was slick with dew and warm still. His temperature was, thankfully, not as high as the night before. A beard concealed the gauntness of his cheeks. He looked more than faintly disreputable and quite unlike his usual suave and well-groomed self.

Oh, yes, she knew who the man beneath the cowl was. How could she not know? For the past five days, she listened as he confessed his litany of sins.

She heard him apologize to his dead parents for being a disappointment to them.

She heard him profess his love to Assistant District Attorney, Rachel Dawes.

She heard him beg a city full of strangers to forgive him for having failed to protect them from the monster he unwittingly unleashed on them.

She heard him ask for forgiveness from the butler who supported his choice to become Gotham's Knight.

She never imagined she'd learn Batman's identity. No more than she anticipated that when she caught him against her that she'd not only become his doctor, and nurse, but his spiritual advisor as well. How was she to know that it was Gotham's prodigal son, its seeming wayward child who was the city's silent protector?

Who the man was beneath the cowl was a secret she, like everyone else in Gotham, had speculated about since he burst on the scene that night the Narrows became doused in a toxic cloud that left dozens incapacitated. Who their caped avenger was had been the fodder around every water fountain in the city for months.

_Not that knowing he's Batman matters one way or the other_ , she thought as she gently stroked his cheek. Whether Batman was a poor man from the Narrows or the fabulously affluent Bruce Wayne changed nothing for her. He was this city's silent guardian. Her Dark Knight. The man who risked his life to keep people like her, safe.

_And he needs my help_.

No, what Gotham's Knight really needed was more willow bark tea. She winced as stiff muscles shrieked in protest as she climbed to her feet. Erin turned to limp into her tiny kitchen, ears attuned to every breath he drew. She was in the process of filling the teapot with water when she heard him scream.

"Rachel!"

Fearful he'd rip his stitches open while in another of his feverish deliriums, Erin dropped the teapot in the sink and rushed into the bedroom. She found him sitting bolt upright in the bed, brown eyes dilated with fever, and his skin dewed with fresh perspiration. He turned his head at the sound of her approach, eyes narrowing into thin slits.

"Rachel?"

"No," she said as she crossed over to the bed and checked to make sure he had not torn open his stitches. He hadn't, thankfully. "Please, lay back down, now."

"Can't," he rasped. "She's waiting for me."

"Shh," she crooned while gently stroking his cheek. The heat from his skin nearly singed her fingers. Damn, there went her hopes that his fever was going down. "She'll still be waiting for you when you are better."

"No." The low, primal sound of his grief hit her like an invisible fist to her belly. "She won't."

"Why not?"

"She's dead. They're all dead." His head fell against her shoulder. "They're dead because of me."

Erin felt her heart twist itself into a constrictor knot at those words. The people of Gotham blamed Batman for being the source of this problem, and not its solution. Their own Mayor claimed on live television that he was a stain they needed to wash off their city's streets.

The police hunted him because they'd been told to hunt. To treat him like a criminal. _Like the Joker_. Yet nothing they said about him, that they did to him, compared to what this man was doing to himself. His guilt was a real, tangible force. Repairing his physical body, she could do. Healing his soul was something only time could do.

"Just lay down," she urged him gently. "Please."

"Hot," he rasped. "So hot."

"Lay back and I will get a damp cloth to help cool you down."

His eyes narrowed as they studied her face. "Who are you?"

"Erin Tate."

Her name was still as foreign to him today as it was the dozens of other times she told it to him. Batman's face tightened. Exhaustion haunted his features. He leaned back on one elbow. He was so weak his body shook with the effort.

"Why didn't you leave me in the streets?"

"Because you asked me to help you."

"Shouldn't have bothered."

"Well, I think you're a man worth saving."

"Wrong."

They had this same argument a half-dozen times already. It wasn't one she planned to let him win. _I just won't argue it out with him while he's burning up with fever._

"Hush now." She gently pushed him back against the pillows. "And go back to sleep."

He complied but only because his body demanded it.

"Rachel..." he whispered as his eyes drooped and fell shut.


	4. Chapter 4

_He stood at the end of a long, dark tunnel. He thought he recognized it as one of the tunnels beneath Wayne Manor. A cold breeze ruffled his hair. Water dripped from somewhere, but he couldn't tell where. Chirping drew his gaze upwards. There, amidst the jagged stalactites hanging from the ceiling were dozens of little yellow eyes._

_A high-pitched shriek, like that of a banshee, bounced off the walls. The silky wet rustle of wings sounded from behind him. He spun around, body tensing in readiness for a fight. His breath expelled in a rush when he saw a black, winged figure, swooping towards him. When it drew close enough, he made out the emblem emblazoned on his chest plate…_

Bruce opened his eyes. Exactly why they felt so heavy was a bit of a mystery to him, but he finally got them to do as he commanded. He took a moment to evaluate himself. His head, thigh, and abdomen throbbed with one continuous pain. Muscles protested as he moved his arms and his other leg. His mouth and throat felt Ike he swallowed a ten-pound bag of sand.

He was alive, though, and that was all that mattered.

He turned his attention then to his surroundings. He was lying on his back in a soft bed. Did he make it back to the penthouse then? No, he realized with a frown. That wasn't possible. He distinctly recalled falling from a roof while trying to evade the police.

So, where exactly was he then?

His brow puckered as he tried to gather his disjointed memories. He glanced up. The zodiac and other constellations as they appeared in the night sky covered the ceiling. Definitely not something Alfred would have chosen or allowed to have done. Even though he'd have appreciated the artist who did the painting. Bruce wasn't much of an appraiser of art but even he found the simple design elegant.

He turned his head to study the rest of the room. Curtains in a faded shade of robin egg blue, a bit tattered and frayed at the seams covered the only window. Two bookshelves piled high with a sea of books in different shapes, sizes, and condition sat on each side. An old steamer trunk served as both a nightstand and dresser, and the bedside lamp had a plain silver base with a lampshade hand-painted with a scene of fairies dancing through a forest.

It reminded him of a whimsical, simple, and very feminine sort of room.

_Definitely not in the penthouse_ , he decided as he shifted into a more comfortable position. He froze when he realized he was stark naked beneath the sheets covering him. Where his suit was, he didn't know. A cursory glance at the steamer trunk provided him with a clue about one possible location. He vaguely recalled helping someone remove his suit. He just couldn't recall _who_ he helped.

Whiskers scraped his cowl as he turned his head. Clearly, he hadn't allowed them to remove his mask. That was some consolation, at least. Bruce tried to sit up, only to wince as a jolt of white hit pain across his chest, through his lower abdominal area. He sank back into the soft ticking, gasping in agony.

It all came rushing back to him then.

Dent. The warehouse. Being shot. Running for his life...

Something stirred to his right. He turned his head and spied a woman seated in a chair next to the bed. Her gaze was fixed on the pages of a worn and obviously, well-loved book open in her lap. Even groggy as he was, he had to admit she was a far more pleasant sight to awaken too than some of the things he imagined.

Something about her was familiar but Bruce couldn't figure out what it was. He drew in a deep breath and brought his gaze back to her face. Thick smudges beneath her eyes spoke of many sleepless nights. He frowned as he wondered about how many of those nights there were. _How long have I been unconscious_? he wondered. _And where's Alfred_?

His watcher must have felt his gaze upon her because she glanced up. Eyes gray as the fog that rolled in off Gotham Bay met his. She gasped and sat forward, the book toppling from her lap to land on the floor with a soft thud.

"You're awake." Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled. "How do you feel?"

"As if I fell off a roof," he barely managed to croak.

"You did fall off a roof." She picked up a glass and held it for him. "Here, sip," she said. "The tea will help rid you of the frogs stuck in your throat."

The slight minty taste caught him by surprise, but he was too thirsty to protest. He made to sit up when he finished but she placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"Don't."

"Why not?"

"Because you could tear open your stitches and cause yourself to start bleeding again."

He gave in but only because he considered how rude it'd be to bleed all over her bedsheets. _Again_ , he thought with a grimace.

"Where am I?"

"You're in my apartment." She moved her hand from his shoulder to his cheek. "Nobody knows you're here, Batman. You're safe."

"Who are you?"

"Erin." She gave him a crooked smile. "Erin Tate."

"Erin." He liked the sound of her name. It was soft, musical. Like her. "You were the one who asked me if I was okay."

"Yes." She gave a nod of her head. "I did."

"I'd just fallen off the roof of the building."

"Yes, you had."

Bruce tried to gather the rest of his fragmented memories together, but the events became muddled by a pain so fierce it stole his breath away.

"You should rest."

"No," he gritted even as she blurred before his eyes. "Not until you tell me why you brought me into your home."

"You passed out in my arms." She indicated the room with her hand. "My apartment was the closest place I could bring you given the rather serious condition you were in."

"You shouldn't have..."

"And what was I supposed to do?" A crackle of what might have been anger thickened the Irish in her voice. "Leave you lying unconscious and bleeding in the street? Walk away and let you die?" She scoffed. "I think not."

"I'm a..."

"You're a what?" she cut in, her tone biting. "A vigilante? A murderer? A criminal? Pah!" Those oh, so expressive eyes flickered with something wet and dark and brutally familiar. _Anger_ , Bruce realized. "Those are all words which have vastly different meanings here in the Narrows."

His brow knit with his confusion. What could have happened that'd cause a seemingly compassionate woman to despise the police as vehemently as Erin did? It was an answer Bruce decided he wanted.

"Why do those words have different meanings in the Narrows?"

"Because here in the Narrows you quickly learn how the lines of the law are not painted in black and white. Here, the good guys can turn out to be the bad guys. And the bad guys?" Her voice was bitter with pain. "Well, the bad guys might be the ones who wear the badges and call themselves the officers of the law."

"The law has failed you."

"The law has failed many in this city." She set the cup back on the makeshift nightstand. "That's why the people here in the Narrows believe in Batman."

"You shouldn't believe in me."

"Why not?"

"I failed Gotham. I fail..."

"Pardon my French here," Erin interjected with a toss of her head. "But that is complete and utter horse shit."

Bruce found himself taken aback. Not even Alfred addressed him that bluntly. Then he fixed her with a stare, one burning, blistering glare which should have cowed her on the spot. Erin surprised him by meeting his glare her own.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he rasped.

"The hell I don't," she growled right back. "I dug the bullet out of your gut. I stitched the knife wound in your thigh. I have sat here at your bedside for ten days now, watching as you fought the demons trying to consume your soul. So, don't tell me I don't know what I'm talking about." Her voice burned with emotions as fiery as her hair. "I know a damned sight more than you think I do." She sniffed and sat back in her chair. "And a damned sight more than I should, I admit."

"How long have I been unconscious?"

"Ten days."

" _Ten_ days?" He stared over at the window, saw sunlight beaming through the curtains. Alfred would have worried himself into a state by now. He had only been able to manage a thirty-second phone call to him before he rushed into the abandoned warehouse to face Harvey Dent. "You said _ten_ days?"

"Yes," she confirmed with a nod. "You have alternated between complete unconsciousness or deliriousness for _ten_ days."

Bruce looked at her. He wanted to ask about his delirious state and what he may have revealed while he was in such an agitated state, but he was afraid of the answer. What she knew, and how much of it concerned him greatly. Asking her was the only way to get the answers he wanted since he couldn't do much else. Not in his present condition, anyway.

"You know who I am, don't you?"

Erin pushed to her feet and walked to the window.

"What you said was said while you were not in control of your thoughts or your actions." She looked back at him. "It needs to go no further than that."

He let out a heavy sigh. "You do know who I am then."

"It doesn't matter whether I do know who Batman is. For me, knowing is about trust and respect. When you decide to tell me? When you decide to show me the man beneath that mask? That is when I will know. Until then I will continue to feign ignorance about your identity."

"Why?"

"Because if Batman is a poor man from the Narrows or the fabulously affluent Bruce Wayne doesn't matter." She paused to let him absorb her words. _Telling me she knows without saying it_ , he realized. Then she continued. "Batman is still this city's silent guardian. He is the man who risked his life to keep people like me safe."

"No," he whispered. "I'm no hero." He struggled to sit up. The effort nearly sent him tumbling back into unconsciousness. He hammered back the darkness with a force of will that had beads of sweat dotting his brow, and his upper lip. "A real hero would have stopped the Joker long before he killed so many innocent people."

…

Erin turned to see he pushed his covers back and was attempting to sit up. She hid a smile behind her hand. In his determination to get to his feet, Bruce Wayne had quite clearly forgotten that he was completely naked beneath the sheets. A moralistic woman would politely remind him of his nudity. _Well, I'm far too sensible a woman to do something that idiotic._

"And where exactly do you think you are going?"

"I need to return home."

"No, you don't."

"My being here places you in danger."

"And?"

"And they will arrest you." He scowled at her harrumph. "They'll charge you as an accomplice."

Erin folded her arms across her chest before she said with a slight toss of her head, "I say let the law come and arrest me. I'm not ashamed of helping a good man during his time of need."

"Erin…"

"I'll willingly go to jail for you."

"I won't let you get arrested because of me," he rasped. "I won't ever let anybody be hurt because of me."

"Yes, well." She moved to the bed and smoothed the covers back over him. "You're not strong enough to get home. There's a very high chance of you being caught by the dozens of police scouring the city for you."

"The risk..."

"Is threefold what it'd be if you were one hundred percent," she insisted. "So what's it matter if you stay here with me for a few more days?"

He raised his head and fixed her with a hard glare, one that likely made many a thug tell him exactly what it was he wanted to know. Erin met it unflinchingly. Bruce groaned, grimaced, and lay back down.

"You may have a point, Ms. Tate."

"Of course, I have a point." Shaking her head, Erin walked over to tug the covers back over him. "You've been at death's door for ten days. You cannot simply open your eyes and…" She gestured wildly with her hands, amusing him. "Put on your Batsuit and go traipsing through the city. It's simply not doable."

"You win," he said as what little strength he had evaporated. His eyes drooped and fell shut before she finished tucking him in.


	5. Chapter 5

"You cheated!" Bruce stated while eyeing the bowl set on the bed tray balanced across his lap with revulsion. "There's no possible way you could have drawn an inside straight like that without having a few cards hidden up your sleeve."

"I did not have to cheat," Erin declared with a smug look. "You're just terrible at poker. Which, given what your nocturnal career is, is ironic, to say the least."

He snorted and dipped his spoon into the light, fragrant broth.

"I tend to look at my nocturnal career as being more like a game of chess."

"Poker, chess." She shrugged. "They're both games of chance."

"Meaning you cannot predict the outcomes because both have an infinite number of possible ways in which they can end?"

Her lips twitched. "Yes."

He handed her his empty glass when she signaled for it.

"You realize I have now lost at both games, right?"

She sniffed as she took the glass from him and left to refill it. Bruce hid a smile as he heard her muttering beneath her breath and slamming things on the kitchen counter. She returned and handed him the full glass.

"Problem?" he asked innocently.

"No." There was just a hint of heat in her tone. "Now be a good boy and eat your soup."

He wrinkled his nose as he once again stared at the hearty vegetable soup she brought him.

"What's in it?"

"There be a plethora of nice and healthy vegetables in that soup. Vitamins and minerals," she added, "which will help you heal."

Bruce snorted. "It's not only a plethora of nice and healthy vegetables that I need to help me with rebuilding my body." His expression mutinous, he poked at a piece of zucchini with his spoon. "I also need to get out of this bed. I need to begin rebuilding my strength through some physical training as well." After a seconds debate, he set aside the spoon and glowered at her. "Its been more than a week since my fever broke, Erin."

"I know that it has been more than a week." Turning, Erin met his gaze. "But you're barely capable of walking to the bathroom without that knee giving way beneath you." He snorted but she paid it no mind. "Just showering yesterday was enough to wear you out."

He made a face at that bit of truth. It had been positively humiliating to find that a ten-minute shower required him to take a three-hour nap afterwards.

"That's why I need to start exercising," he insisted. "Getting my strength and endurance back through physical movement is as important as nourishing it with the right foods."

"You're not ready to resume any type of training regime, Bruce."

He enjoyed the way his name rolled off her tongue. It settled and soothed him when he was feeling out of sorts. He especially liked listening to her when she got riled up. Her accent got more pronounced when she was speaking passionately about something she believed. _And nothing sparks that temper better than pointing out how much I have failed as Batman._ He found himself sparking debates with her just to rouse her ire.

Bruce ran a hand over his face to hide his slight smirk. There was no swaying Erin about her faith and belief in Batman as a symbol of hope and strength for the people of Gotham. Her unwavering support of him and his objectives convinced him to dispense with his cowl.

It was pointless to keep up the pretense of anonymity, anyway.

Erin knew Batman was Bruce Wayne. She knew his every secret, in fact. _She could have told the world about me being Batman_ , he thought, studying her silently. _She'd have made a fortune by sharing my identity with the world. She didn't. And I'm positive that she never will_.

Deceit and selfishness just weren't in this woman's nature.

"I am well enough to get out of this bed, Erin."

"You've lost a lot of blood and have wounds that are still healing."

"So?"

"So, you could reopen them if you aren't careful." And then she glared at him. "You also had a fever attack your body and weaken it considerably."

"I know..."

"With how high your fever was, it'd generally take a normal man weeks before he'd be able to get out of that bed and resume any type of physical training regimen."

" _Weeks_?" Horrified, Bruce could only stare at her. "I am _not_ going to remain confined to this bed for weeks!"

"Injuries aside, you are a healthy and robust man. That has greatly aided you in your recovery. However," she said as he grumbled beneath his breath. "That by no way means you can hop out of that bed and immediately begin training as you seem hellbent on doing."

"Erin…"

"Bruce." She set her hand on his shoulder. "Take it day-by-day."

"I plan on it," he assured her. "But…"

"No buts." She softened her brusque tone with a smile. "There's no rush for you to get back on your feet quickly, anyway. The police are still searching everywhere for you and those now labeled as your accomplices. Remaining here while you recuperate is your best bet to avoid any unwarranted police suspicion or potential questions about how you came about your rather strange injuries."

Bruce glowered at her, but his glare drifted into a disgruntled sigh when he saw the militant look in her eyes. He found himself on the opposite end of that look plenty this week. _And I lost each time_. In a battle between her and the Joker, he almost preferred facing off with the Joker. There he felt more on even grounds. Plus, he could slam the clown's head into a wall to expel some of his frustration.

"Alfred," he said with a ghost of a smile, "will positively love you after he meets you."

"Why?"

"You don't let me run roughshod over you for one thing." He reached for his glass and took a drink before adding, "And you tend to yell back when I yell at you."

"I had to learn how to hell."

One brow quirked. "Why's that?"

"I'm the youngest of nine children."

To Bruce, who had been an only child, having nine siblings sounded a bit… _daunting_. A part of him imagined it was nice to have so many brothers and sisters. A ready support system.

"You have nine brothers and sisters?"

"Brothers," she corrected. "I'm the only girl."

His lips twitched.

"So, you learned how to yell out of necessity?"

"I'll have you know that I only yell at cranky, overbearing, and demanding men."

Bruce snorted.

"I'm not overbearing." After a second he added, "Nor have I been demanding."

"But you admit to being cranky?"

"Alfred would tell you that I make a horrible patient."

She snorted a laugh. "I've learned that all on my own. Now." She pointed at his tray. "Eat your soup before it gets any colder."

He looked down at the bowl on his tray. The soup didn't look any more appetizing now than it did a few minutes ago. He poked at a carrot with his spoon before scooping it up with some broth and other vegetables. He stuck the spoon in his mouth, swallowed, and then frowned at Erin.

"I am only doing this for you, you know."

She settled in the chair beside the bed with that infernal book she habitually consulted when she needed new ideas for how to torture him.

"I shall be eternally grateful for your sacrifice." Some moments later, she added, the ends of her lips crooking upwards, "All of it, please."

Bruce complied. Aside from anything else, the soup was delicious and he was hungry enough to eat a bear.

O.o.O

He had enough of bed rest by the next morning. Being stuck in bed was his least favorite pastime, ever. Despite his public persona as a playboy with few interests that didn't involve causing a huge scandal, he wasn't a man accustomed to lying in bed all day. At that moment, however, lying in bed was about all he could do.

There was no point in arguing with Erin about his getting up and moving around, though. Not with his left knee in the condition it was. He couldn't stand, much less walk, without his damned knee giving out on him. She was convinced he damaged the knee in the same fall which claimed the life of Harvey Dent. Without an MRI machine, though, they didn't know the extinct of the damage or whether the injury would be a permanent one.

He just needed to rehabilitate the joint in his opinion. That particular viewpoint, given after she helped him off the floor the night before, had not done much to either incur her favor or reduce her anger with him for disobeying her directive to rest. He complied with her request to stay in bed today, more because his knee was throbbing like a bad tooth, and not because he hated seeing that disappointed look on her face.

He found he had been right about where she hid his Batsuit. He discovered it in that old steamer trunk after she left to do some shopping. He retrieved the burner phone he kept in a pouch on his utility belt and contacted Alfred, finally alleviating the poor man's anxieties about his well-being.

" _It is good to hear you are not dead as the news media claim._ "

A note in his voice told Bruce there was a lecture about worrying an old man sick in his future. Not that he didn't deserve it. Disappearing for nearly two weeks without a word hadn't exactly been in his plans, however.

"I would have been had Miss Tate not brought me into her apartment and taken care of me."

" _And are you ready to return home following your rest, sir_?"

The wry humor in the butler's tone had Bruce rolling his eyes.

"I was shot, Alfred. _Shot_."

" _And been convalescing quite nicely in the company of a lovely young woman_ ," Alfred pointed out. " _Gotham high society would construe that as resting_."

He let that go. He didn't much care what Gotham high society thought at that moment.

"How do you know that Erin is lovely?" he quizzed. "You've never met her."

" _A guess is all, sir._ "

Bruce snorted and thought, a guess my left toe. For a while, neither man spoke. Finally, he said, "You'll have to becareful when you come here to get me. Where Erin lives is not exactly our neck of the woods."

" _I promise I will not come to get you in the Rolls-Royce. We wouldn't want some hooligan to steal the tires while we are visiting, after all_."

Bruce snorted a laugh and disconnected the call. He dropped the phone beside him on the bed before settling the computer that Erin had graciously allowed him the use of while he was whiling away his time in bed. He contented himself with browsing the various news headlines, wanting to see what the fallout from that night was despite his brain warning him about how he was better off not knowing.

One headline in particular immediately caught his attention. Bruce felt his heart stop as he clicked on the link and saw the title of the article, dated from earlier that day, splash across the screen in big, bold letters.

**POLICE CONFIRM THAT BATMAN IS DEAD!**

The headline had a long-range photograph of him on back of the Batpod. A sidebar contained a chronology of Batman's career, starting with his takedown of the Falcone family. God it felt like that happened a century ago and not just the twenty odd months it had been. Quickly, Bruce scrolled past the blurb of Batman's alleged slaying of Harvey Dent until he came across the start of the story.

_Police confirm that the body recovered from an abandoned building is that of the masked vigilante known as Batman..._

Bruce looked up from the screen, reeling from the news. He had known the news would be bad, but the implications of this were horribly, horribly clear.

"Erin?" He cleared his throat, swallowed against the bile which rushed up, hot and acidic, to scorch his throat. "Erin!" he yelled, louder this time. She appeared in the door less than thirty seconds later, her eyes flashing concern and her eyebrows lifted almost to her hairline.

"What is it, Bruce?"

"Have you read today's headlines?"

"No, why?"

"Because you need to come read this."

"Okay," she said as she stepped to the bed. "Why?"

He responded by turning the computer towards her. The blood immediately drained from her face.

"God's blood," she whispered, horrified. "Someone has murdered a man to convince Gotham you are dead. But.." She frowned. "Why? What point is there in making Gotham believe that Batman is dead?"

"That's what we have to find out," Bruce replied in that familiar rasp he cultivated for his alter-ego. "And before they murder anyone else."


	6. Chapter 6

Alfred Pennyworth, humming that bloody obnoxious Safe-Auto jingle, moved through the Wayne penthouse, opening drapes, and enjoying the spectacular view. It might have been a gray day outside, but that didn't take away from the beauty of the city outside the windows.

He turned and went into the kitchen, placed a carafe of hot tea, a glass of freshly squeezed juice, and a bowl of oatmeal on a silver tray he then carried into the master bedroom. He frowned when he spied the empty bed. The butler heaved a world-weary sigh as he walked to a closet and pulled at a lever hidden in the paneling. A door popped open and Alfred entered the safe room to find Bruce seated at the computer terminal, watching GCTV, the local all-news station, while running a scan on something Alfred was pretty sure he didn't care to know about.

"It will be nice when Wayne Manor is rebuilt." He walked over and set the breakfast tray on the top of a filing cabinet. "Then you can trade not resting and recuperating in a luxury penthouse for not resting and recuperating in a mansion."

"Figuring out who the GCPD claims is Batman is important, Alfred." He typed a few commands into the computer. "The man has a family who deserves to know he's dead." His shoulders slumped. "They also deserve to know why he's dead."

"If I may say so, sir," he said while passing his employer a cup of tea. "But you aren't the one who killed him. It is not up to you to figure out who he is so that his family can properly bury him and mourn him. It's up to the police."

"What I want to know is who committed the murder so the police can bring them to justice. Especially," he extolled on a long sigh, "before any more bodies might show up."

"Answering that will keep until your injuries have had a chance to heal."

"Erin did a good job in patching me up."

"Yes." Alfred nodded. "Yes, she did. It'd be a shame if you repaid all of Miss Tate's hard work by pushing yourself and injuring yourself all over again, now wouldn't it?"

The ghost of a smile flickered across Bruce's lips.

"I told her that you'd end up loving her soon as you met her."

"I do like Miss Tate," Alfred admitted without shame or reservation. "I like her quite a lot, in fact. I even hoped, given how she kindly took you into her home and nursed you while you were injured that you'd return the favor by inviting her to the penthouse for tea."

Bruce turned away from the computer and looked at the older gentleman.

"Is that your way of subtly reminding me about things like social norms and expectations of reciprocity?"

"It is my way of saying that Miss Tate is the sort of person you need in your life right now." _Especially when you are feeling as if you have lost everything that has ever truly mattered to you_ , the butler thought sadly. "She's the type of friend you need helping you to deal with everything that is going on in your life. She can help make your transition from vigilante to wealthy degenerate just a bit easier."

…

 _Was he serious_? Bruce studied the butler silently for a moment. Alfred had been the one person he figured would understand what he was thinking and feeling. He thought highly of Rachel, was just as saddened by her death as he, himself was. How could he insinuate he should pursue a friendship with Erin?

"I lost the only friend I needed when Rachel died," he said quietly. "I don't want nor need anybody new in my life."

"You did lose a friend on that horrible night. Yes, you did." Bruce saw the slight twinge that twisted the butler's face and assumed it was his own grief over her death. "However, you are being offered a gift here."

One dark brow lifted.

"And what gift am I being offered, exactly?"

"You're being offered the gift of friendship by someone who does not care that you are Bruce Wayne or Batman." When Bruce merely remained silent, Alfred pressed on. "Miss Tate accepts you for who you are, not what. She sees a good man, one whom she respects, and that she admires for having the courage to stand up against injustice."

"I don't think pursuing a friendship with Erin is appropriate at the moment, Alfred."

"Miss Tate understands you're grieving and has been as supportive of you as she can be throughout every inch of the process. That's what friends do, sir."

"Erin…"

"Miss Dawes would not want you to grieve alone, Master Bruce."

He was right. Rachel wouldn't want him sitting there and grieving alone. _How do I go on though? How can I pretend nothing has changed?_

"You used to talk about a time when you would be finished with Batman. Well," he said smartly. "You aren't Batman anymore. You have to find a new life for yourself. Shouldn't that life include such things as friends?"

"Why should I go on living when Rachel can't?" he asked the older man. "What right do I have to a life and happiness when Rachel doesn't? It's my fault the Joker went after her. I'm the reason why she died."

"What would Miss Tate say about that if she was standing here in front of you?"

"She'd say the grief is making me look at things that way." He glanced over at the older man. "She'd also call me a stubborn ass."

The ghost of a smile flittered across Alfred's face.

"Well, I wouldn't say it so bluntly, sir."

"But you are in agreement with her."

"I am in agreement with her," Alfred admitted without shame. "More so, I think _you_ are not only in agreement with her but part of you misses having her around to trade barbs with."

Much as he didn't want to admit it, not out loud, anyway, Alfred was right. He did miss Erin. He missed the way they talked about anything or nothing at all. He could talk with her about things he couldn't with anybody but Alfred. _And even then there are things I can't talk with him about_.

"Okay, Alfred," he said with a small smile. "You win. I'll give Erin a call and invite her over for tea."

"Very good, Master Bruce."

…

Detective Smith was the duty officer for the day, tasked with taking calls and directing them to wherever the hell they were going. He glanced at the boards, nodded, satisfied that all was quiet before he reached over to flip on the office television. He flipped to the all-news channel and sat down in a swivel chair near a row of silent telephones. Mayor Anthony Garcia was standing at the podium and speaking above the buzz from the crowd.

" _Harvey Dent was a hero in every sense of the word. His courage and dedication in taking down the criminal empires who are ruling our city is what has saved us from ruin. It is appropriate, now, in the wake of his death that we honor his memory and what he stood for by announcing how we will soon be passing into law an act which will show that his sacrifice was not in vain_."

The Mayor paused to allow the raucous reaction his announcement created to die down before he continued.

" _This law was a dream of Harvey Dent's, and something he was working towards until his brutal murder at the hands of a masked vigilante in a cape. He wanted to see stricter penalties for the terrorists who are infecting this city. He wanted to make it more difficult for them to escape justice. He stood once on this very platform that I am and said that the inmates have been running the asylum for far too long. He was right. Well, with the formation of this act, we will take back the asylum and end Gotham's need for costumed vigilantes. Thank you_."

The mayor stepped down into the pit of waiting vipers. They hissed and spit questions at him faster than an addict could shoot up. Clancy Matthews, a replacement for local big shot Mike Engels, who hadn't returned to work, shouldered his way to the front of the pack and stuck his microphone in the mayor's face.

" _Mayor Garcia, your office has said that the Batman is dead and that his threat is no longer a concern for the people of Gotham... but who's to say that there won't be another to rise up and take his place? Or that Batman wasn't working as part of a group_?"

The mayor shifted, turning slightly towards the cameras aimed at him and said stiffly, " _Well, we don't know that for certain..._ "

" _Exactly! So, why hasn't your office released the identity of the man you claim is Batman? Why has there been all this secrecy if Batman is truly dead_?"

" _Mr. Matthews, the Major Crimes Unit has kept the identity of the vigilante known as Batman a secret because the investigation is an ongoing one_."

" _And why is it an ongoing one if the vigilante is truly dead_?"

" _Discovering whether or not Batman has friends who helped him terrorize this city is important to bringing justice to the good man who was murdered as a direct cause of the vigilante's actions. Anybody who was involved in helping Batman will be arrested and tried for their involvement_."

The mayor turned to walk away but Matthews fired off one more question before the man could escape into his waiting retinue of private bodyguards. " _Are the police near to making any arrests then_?"

Garcia glanced over at the reporter, his dark eyes flashing with impatience. " _I have it on good authority from our Police Commissioner that arrests are imminent. Now, if you'll excuse me_."

Smith turned his head away from the television and yelled out to Vacholmsky, who was glaring at his computer screen. "Hey, mayor says arrests in the Batman case are imminent."

Vacholmsky punched a few keys on the keyboard. "Is that so?"

"Mayor is under the impression it is."

"Yea," Vacholmsky tossed a disgusted look over at the television. "Well, the mayor's full of shit."

"Mayor's always full of shit," Dinah King said, stepping over to where a coffeepot perched upon a burner. She poured black coffee into a mug with a picture of Goofy on it and went walking into the room where Smith was. "He ain't got a clue about what's happening down here in the trenches, but always talks like he does." She handed him a sealed manila envelope. "This came a few minutes ago by special courier. It isn't addressed to anybody but I figured since you are the duty officer that it should go to you."

"Thanks," Smith said, opening the envelope with a forefinger. He pulled out a sheet of paper with a single word written on it: **TWO**

"What the hell?" Smith turned the paper over. "Hey, King, who delivered this? Do you know?"

"It was just some guy in one of those Mail-Ex hoodies," she said, shrugging. "Why?"

"C'mere and take a look at this shit."

King took the paper and studied it. "It says **TWO**." She looked at Smith, her brow knitting into a frown. "So? What's so important about the number two?"

"I don't know what's so important about the number two," he replied. "That's the problem."

"Just chuck it." King took a sip of her coffee. "It's likely nothing."

"In my experience, what seems like nothing is usually something. Especially in this screwy city."

"Check the envelope then," she suggested. "Maybe there's something stuck in there that explains what exactly the two means."

Smith tore the manila envelope open and saw a small, rectangular shaped card with a blue pattern coating its backing come tumbling onto the desk. He dropped the envelope and reaches over to pick the card up. It was the standard size and shape of a playing card. He turned it over to look at it, a Joker. He was about to toss the card into the trash when he saw neat handwriting scribbled across the bottom of the card:

**I KNOW WHO THE MAN IN THE MORGUE IS. DO YOU?**

Smith's eyes widened as the symbolism of that playing card and who it represented struck home.

"King," he said in a strangled voice, "call Commissioner Gordon. He needs to see this. _Now_."

King was already reaching for one of the phones on the desk. "Right."


	7. Chapter 7

The Joker sat in his cell deep in the bowels of Blackgate Penitentiary. The silence didn't bother him. Nor did his seclusion. Neither would last long. He expected this. He planned for it. For Batman failing to let him go. _Can't rely on anyone these days_ , he pouted. _Just have to do everything yourself. That's okay, I prepared for this outcome_.

Bats problem, the Joker decided as he shifted into a more comfortable position, was that he was to... _principled_. Believed too strongly in the established order. He giggled, long and low. _My, but the man proved he is truly incorruptible_. Refusing to kill him because of some pesky little rule. _And after everything I did, too_!

Killing Harvey's squeeze, giving Gotham's white knight that little push he needed to give in to his dark side, and everything else hadn't been enough to force Batman to shed that mantle of civility. To give into the madness that lurked just beneath the surface.

_We'll see if your self-righteousness holds out after you see what I've got in store for you_.

The Joker's eyes glinted in the shadows and his mangled lips twisted into a smile. _Wait until they hear the truth about Harvey Dent. About all the things he did before falling to his death_. Batman taking the fall for Dent was the only part of this game he hadn't expected. He hadn't anticipated the Dark Knight being sacrificed for the White.

Ah, but he warned him, didn't he? Told him that when these good people didn't need him anymore that they'd turn on him. Cast him out. Shun him. Treat him like a pariah. _Do you see it now? Do you understand finally? Their morals, their code? It's all a joke. An illusion. They turned on you as soon as they no longer needed you._

He'd correct that, though. He'd show these civilized people who the real madman was. They'd find out they need Batman.

_And then I will break him just like I did Harvey Dent_.

His low, throaty laugh bounced off the walls, scaring the spiders in their webs, and sending roaches scurrying for safety.

...

Several hours later found Gordon seated at his desk, studying the playing card, and sheaf of paper delivered to the station through narrowed eyes. What the Joker meant by the number two was anybody's guess. Nobody, not even Batman, could predict what the madman was capable of.

Exactly how the damned clown managed to get a message out of Blackgate, he didn't know. Gordon damn sure planned on finding out, though. _And I will put a stop to it_. He tossed the playing card on his desk and reached for the report he requested.

The only people who visited the Joker in the last few days were his lawyer and a court-appointed therapist. His brow furrowed. His lawyer was young and easily manipulable. The therapist, too. He'd get detectives to look into both. _One of them must be how he's getting his messages out_ , he decided. _And once I prove which one of them it is, I will put a stop to it_.

"Hey, Jim." Bullock rapped on the open door as he poked his head in. "Got something outside you're gonna wanna see for yourself."

"What is it, Harv?"

"Trust me, you gotta come see this for yourself."

Gordon frowned, not pleased with the interruption, but got up to follow Bullock downstairs. A crowd had gathered in the lobby of the precinct.

"Get back," Bullock barked. "Let the commissioner through."

Gordon pushed through the throng to the front steps of police headquarters. He stopped when he spotted what Bullock told him he needed to see. There, on the pavement, in a crudely made black costume and a plastic mask lay Batman.

He didn't have to check his pulse to know he was dead.

The man's ashen complexion and blue lips confirmed that.

"The Mayor said Batman was dead!" Someone called out. "Was he wrong? Is Batman not dead?"

Was Mayor Garcia wrong about Batman being dead? Gordon believed he was. _I think I'd know if Batman was really dead_. How, he didn't know. He just believed that he'd know if the man was truly dead. He started down the steps but the people pushed close, trying to get a look at the dead man, clamoring for answers that Gordon just didn't have. Bullock muscled his way through, barking out orders as he went.

"Everyone move back so we can do our damn jobs."

People parted before him. If not for the seriousness of the situation, Gordon might have been amused. He knelt beside the body. Pinned to _Batman's_ chest with an ice pick was a 4x8 notecard with the eerily familiar background of a grinning Joker. He didn't need the medical examiner to confirm that it'd fit inside the puncture wound to the man's thigh.

Further examination revealed the man had also been shot in the abdomen. Gordon suspected the bullet would match the one dug out of the abdomen of the other Batman. _We never released this information to the public_. A frown puckered his brow. _The only way that someone could know this was if they were the one to commit both murders._

Gordon bent his head so he could read the words scrawled across the card in what he prayed would be red ink.

**I KNOW WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO HARVEY. DOES GOTHAM?**

His breath whooshed out as the implication of those words became clear: the Joker knew what happened in that warehouse and planned to reveal it. _I can't let that happen. I have to stop him before he reveals the truth about Dent._

"What do you think, Jim?"

"What do I think, Harv?" Gordon glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "I think the Joker is playing more games with us."

"That lunatic is locked up, though."

"He's got someone helping him." Gordon stood. "He had a lot of goons working for him. Any of them could be carrying out his orders."

"You thinking he's got someone on the inside?"

"I don't know." Gordon stepped back to let the medical examiner through. "But I'm going to find out."

_..._

It took less than forty-five minutes to identify the second _Batman_. Unlike with the first victim, this man's fingerprints were in the system. His identity left the entirety of the precinct stunned. Gordon could only stand there in stunned disbelief as he looked at the name and file photograph that popped up on the screen ten seconds after the results came back: Ethan Tate, late of North Gotham, and one of the GCPD's newest and brightest police officers.

"Good God." Bullock shifted in his seat. "Kid was just outta the academy."

"Does he have any family listed?"

Bullock tapped a few keys. "Yeah, a sister, Erin."

"Get me her address."

Bullock looked at him.

"You don't gotta do the notification, Jim."

"The hell I don't." Gordon reached for his coat. "I'm the police commissioner. I should be the one to tell her that her brother is dead."

_I owe her that much_ , he added silently.

"You didn't kill him," he pointed out. "Whoever that clown's got working for him did."

"I'm still responsible." He shrugged his coat on. "He was one of my officers."

"Yeah, but..."

"No, buts, Harv." He turned to leave. "What's the address?"

"Brownstone on Evans Street. She lives in the first apartment."

Gordon started to make his way from the precinct.

"Hold up." Bullock grabbed his fedora and jacket. "I'm coming with you."

"You sure you want to?"

"Yeah." He heaved a sigh. "I knew their pop."

"Tate's father was a cop?"

"Damn good one, too." He plopped his fedora on his head. "Their grandpappy, too. NYPD."

He hadn't known that Tate came from a family of police officers. He only met the kid once. His gut told him he had a bright future ahead of him. _A life cut tragically short because of the machinations of one man_. Gordon vowed to see the Joker stay in a cell for the rest of his life for what he had done. _To Tate and everyone else._

"Did you know their father?"

"Yeah, I knew Aaron." Bullock nodded. "We attended the academy together. Worked the same precinct until I transferred to Major Crimes."

"What happened to him?"

"Same thing that happened to his kid." He pulled his coat on. "Got killed in the line of duty by some scumbag." He looked at Gordon. "Made the notification to his widow, personally."

Gordon sighed. "And here we are making another one."

"Yeah." Bullock headed for the exit. "Damn city has claimed the lives of lots of good men and women."

Gordon followed without a word.

...

Evans Street was a block in a poorer section of the city. Run-down buildings, broken sidewalks, pockmarked asphalt, and street-lamps that sputtered in the twilight greeted Gordon soon as he made the turn. He saw garbage piled up in alleyways and on front stoops, cars up on blocks with tires missing and windows smashed, and people watching with distrusting looks on their faces.

As Gordon drove his unmarked car down the street he noticed how there were no children running about, playing. There wasn't a city-funded playground with basketball courts here. There wasn't, he saw with crushing disbelief, so much as a strip of green to install a jungle gym or even some swings.

It was a sad, depressing, and disturbing representation of the socioeconomic differences that affected the various boroughs of the city. He learned long ago that officials liked to handle the problem of poverty in their city one way: _by ignoring it._

"People here don't got any love for cops." Bullock stared out the window. "Can't say I blame 'em. Weren't exactly here for 'em the night that nutcase was trying to gas the hell outta the city."

"The people of this neighborhood lost faith in us long before the Scarecrow tried to gas them, Harv."

"Yeah, I know." He pointed to a building. "That's the place."

Gordon parked his car and went loping up the steps before the engine even had a chance to stop sputtering. He wanted to get this bit of business over with before he lost his nerve.

Family notifications were the least favorite part of his job description. Someone else could have come and done this for him. _Harvey would have if I asked him_. He felt it was his duty, his obligation to come here and personally tell the young woman about her brother's death. She deserved to hear it from him and not someone else.

Five minutes later, he was regretting not letting either Bullock or someone else handle this notification for him.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Tate," he finished lamely. "You have my deepest sympathies for your loss."

"You're sorry? You're sorry?" Erin knocked the hand he placed on her shoulder away with a low, feral growl. "You _should_ be sorry!"

"Miss..."

"Instead of kissing our idiotic mayor's ass and hunting for Batman and his cohorts, you should have been trying to figure out who put the first so-called Batman in the morgue!"

"I had men..."

"Doing jack squat!"

Gordon felt his temper spark. He kept it under control by reminding himself how this woman just received shocking news. _Her anger is simply a reflection of her grief over her brother's death._

"Miss Tate," he said calmly. "I assure you that we will find who killed your brother. They will not get away."

"Don't make me any promises, Commissioner."

"I'm promising you this, Miss Tate." He stared into her red-rimmed, swollen eyes. "I will find the man who did this and see that he's brought to justice."

"No." Her voice caught, she sobbed, once, and clutched at the door jamb so hard her knuckles looked like they'd burst from the pressure. "You won't."

Gordon shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. He hated feeling this useless. He desperately wanted to ease her suffering. Any offer of comfort he made would be ruthlessly rejected at that moment. She didn't trust him, and she didn't have much reason too.

Everything she said was cold, hard truth. He should have worked harder to find the man responsible for the death of the first _Batman_. He should have made sure that damned clown couldn't get any messages out of Blackgate. He should have locked up every one of his remaining thugs. He should have investigated his lawyer and therapist. He should have...

_Told the world the truth._

Instead, he kept the truth of what happened quiet. Sold out a good man to create an illusion.

Now a young cop's family was left to grieve his loss because the hero this city needed had gone into hiding.

Gordon hung his head as guilt threatened to tear him in two.

 


	8. Chapter 8

As soon as Commissioner Gordon left, Erin sunk to her knees in her small entryway and cried until she didn't have any tears left. Once the initial flood of grief subsided, reality set in, and brought along responsibility. She could grieve later. She needed to contact her mother and let her know about Ethan. She also needed to start making whatever arrangements for Ethan's funeral.

She locked her grief away before going and calling her mother. This was the only phone call she planned to make. She wouldn't call her dozens of other relatives to tell them of what happened. She just wasn't capable of dealing with the myriad of questions she knew they'd ask. She also didn't want to sit there and be forced to listen to their words of sympathy or their proclamations about how his loss was "felt by them all." She also wasn't interested in hearing about how they thought this city was to blame for his death. Gotham wasn't to blame.

No, the Joker was the one she held responsible for Ethan's death.

After Erin got off the phone she sat there. The silence was her only companion. With nothing to stop it, her grief screamed at her, shouted obscenities, and hurled accusations. Unable to bear it, she grabbed her purse and car keys before flying out of the apartment. She had no idea where she was going. She just got in her car and drove.

She didn't stop until she saw the towering skyscraper with that familiar W-shaped symbol loom, larger than life, in front of her. Why she drove here, she didn't know. Something nudged her, though, whispered to her to go inside, to go to him. _He'll understand what I'm going through,_ she realized as a sob tore at her throat. _He'll know how to help me find the person responsible for Ethan's death_.

She found a parking lot a few blocks up. She pulled into a stall and climbed out of the car before the engine stopped ticking. She quickly made her way back towards Wayne Towers. She didn't notice the rain. She didn't feel the cold bite of the wind. She didn't hear the people who hurled curses after her as she shoved her way through them to get inside.

Someone shouted at her to "stop," but she willfully ignored them. She sprinted across the lobby, sliding into an elevator seconds after the doors started closing. She hit the button for the penthouse. She barely felt the ride up. The second the doors opened she fled across the foyer as if the hounds of hell were hot on her heels.

…

Bruce had all of thirty seconds to brace himself before he found his arms full of a soaking wet, sobbing woman. He didn't have to work hard at figuring out who the figure was. The flash of red hair he glimpsed a second before she burrowed against him told him who his visitor was.

"Erin? What is it? What's wrong?"

He started to move her backward so he could see her face, but she clung to him like ivy on an oak. He felt wetness gliding along the column of his throat and knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong. He made a low soothing sound deep in his throat, and stroked a hand down over the cap of her hair, along the taut line of her back.

"Erin?" He tried asking again. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"He's dead." She buried her face into the crook of his neck. "Ethan's dead…"

Bruce's eyebrows winged up. Erin hadn't mentioned having a boyfriend while he was staying with her. _Had she_?

"Ethan?"

He shot a look at Alfred who had come to see what the commotion was. Saw his questioning expression and shook his head. Alfred merely nodded and retreated to the kitchen.

"Ethan," she said. "My brother."

Bruce vaguely recalled seeing a couple of pictures on her wall of a young man who looked almost identical to her. Only where Erin had an abundance of red and gold curls, his had been dark as Bruce's. Was that her brother?

"How did he die?"

"It was the Joker."

"But…" Bruce frowned. "The Joker's locked away in Blackgate."

_It can't be him_ , he thought, heart pumping wildly. _There's no way the Joker could have pulled this off._

"Commissioner Gordon thinks it was someone working for him."

"Who?"

He fought to keep his voice neutral. _The last thing she needs is me barking at her_.

"He doesn't know."

That didn't make Bruce happy.

"He doesn't know who the Joker has had contact with since his arrest?"

"If he knows he didn't say anything to me."

"He just notified you about your brother."

A shiver rolled through her into Bruce. He cursed under his breath and went to retrieve the blanket bunched up on the couch, but she merely clung to him even tighter.

"Don't," she begged. "Don't let go. Hold me. Please, please, just hold me."

"I will," he assured her. "But you're like ice, Erin."

"I'm not cold, Bruce, really."

Bruce noticed she said that even as her teeth chattered. _Stubborn damn woman_ , he thought, shrugging out of his robe. He bundled her into the velvety folds, trying to find warmth for her, trying to find his wits.

"Did you leave your apartment in a hurry?" He looked down and saw her bare feet. "You don't even have any shoes on. What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking." She burrowed back against him. "I just wanted to get away from the voices in my head begging me to give up, give in." She sobbed a hollow laugh. "Why should I be alive and Ethan dead?"

"Stop. Stop it." He took a firm grip on her shoulders. "Look at me," he commanded. "Erin, look at me. Now."

She didn't rise to his commanding tone. She didn't so much as look at him. She just whispered, "I shouldn't have come here," a second before her head tipped forward, her forehead resting against his chest. "You have your own grief to deal with, you don't need mine. I just couldn't take the silence or the emptiness of my apartment any longer. Ethan..." Her voice broke. "Oh, God..."

Bruce made a soft shushing sound before saying, "It's okay." His tone and his touch gentled as he brushed away the wet strands of hair stuck to her face. "I understand why you came here. I'm glad you came here."

"Really?" She sniffled. "You're not angry that I came here uninvited?"

"No, I'm not." His knee started to throb in protest but he ignored it. He could tolerate his pain. What he found more difficult to endure was hers. "You shouldn't be alone right now. Where's your family?"

"Most of them live in Ireland." She tilted her head so she could look at him. "A few live in Chicago and New York."

"There's nobody closer?"

"No, it was just me and Ethan." A sad smile touched her lips. "We chose to stay here in Gotham after Da died because we knew it's what he wanted."

Bruce tasted the acidic bite of bitterness in the back of his throat. His war with the Joker had cost the life of someone else. _Not just someone else_ , he corrected as he stared into her eyes. _He was her brother_. His death was on his hands. _Like Rachel's is_. _Like Dent's._

"There's nobody here for you?"

"Nobody," she confirmed with a shake of her head. "What few friends I did have were forced to leave Gotham after the Joker blew up Gotham General."

"They haven't returned?"

"Many of them can't return until the hospital is rebuilt."

"Why didn't the other hospitals usurp the displaced workers?"

"The other hospitals and clinics usurped as many as they could," she said. "But there's still lots left out of work." She made a face. "Myself included."

Jobs in the medical field could be difficult to find. Bruce knew that. Just as he knew that an entire hospital suddenly being laid off because of the Joker had put a severe strain on an already stressed infrastructure. Some of the smaller hospitals and medical clinics had taken in as many patients and staff as they could.

Bruce hadn't considered how severe a situation it really was. _I'll contact Lucius_ , he decided. _Have him organize the details and oversee the hospital being rebuilt._ In the meantime, he'd arrange for money to go to all those without jobs. _It's the least I can do for the hardships I brought on them_.

"Who is going to help you with overseeing your brother's burial arrangements?"

"Nobody."

"Nobody?"

"Commissioner Gordon has said he's going to see to it that Ethan is honored through the department. So, he will be given some sort of civil police ceremony." She tipped her head back against his shoulder. Not before Bruce caught the sliver of resentment that turned her eyes silver. "Which means the department will handle most of the details." Her voice dropped to a low, wet hiss. "As they well should."

"Your brother was a police officer?"

He didn't know why it surprised him to learn that Ethan Tate was an officer. It wasn't like being a civil servant was a bad job. It was a fine job. A worthy one. _A deadly one._

"Ethan graduated from the academy about six months ago." Her mouth thinned He'd just been transferred to homicide last month." She barked a hollow laugh. "There's a wealth of irony for you."

"You're blaming the GCPD for your brother's death," he phrased the words gently, cautiously, knowing she was on an emotional overload, and quite sensitive at this point. "Why? It's not the department's fault."

He felt more than heard her sigh. "Bruce, I swear by all that is holy that if you even try to take the blame for Ethan's death that I will hit you over the head with a broom."

It was an empty threat and they both knew it. During the time he spent recuperating at her apartment Erin had often vowed to hit him over the head with a broom if he didn't stop blaming himself for everything wrong in the city. Hearing her issue bloody mayhem if he tried to take the blame for her brother's death brought him a small amount of relief.

"Erin..."

"Don't," she pleaded in a soft, entreating voice. "Please, just don't."

"But…"

"Bruce, you are not to blame for anything that the Joker has chosen to do with his life."

"If I hadn't..."

"If you hadn't interfered when you did, far more people would either be dead or seriously injured." She angled her head to look at him. "Bruce, you really need to wrap that head of yours around the truth."

"And what truth is that?" he asked in a small, tight voice. "The one that says how Batman failed the city and the people he cares for? Or the one which says that had I not created Batman in the first place that those people would be dead?"

"How about the truth that says that had you not risked your own life and well-being that the Joker would have hurt a lot more people than he actually did?" She ignored his sigh. "You have to finally come to the realization that you did what the damned police couldn't do. You put the Joker in a cage. You stopped him from whatever it was he planned. You saved Gotham. Not the GCPD."

Bruce refused to even consider the possibility that she _might_ have a point.

"Let's not discuss this now," he suggested as he rubbed her arms, her back. Would she ever feel warm to him again? he wondered. "We're not going to agree and you don't need the stress at this moment. Why don't we sit down?"

Erin looked like she was going to argue but she finally just sighed and nodded. Bruce also chose to ignore how she slid an arm around his waist and helped him over to the couch. A week with her taught him the art of prudence. He learned when to pick his battles, to push her buttons, and when allowing her to have her way was just best for the both of them.

Plus, as much as he hated admitting it, his knee was pulsating with a pain that shot from the top of his thigh clear down into his foot. He wasn't sure he'd have made it to the couch without the damned thing buckling and sending him straight to the floor.

Not that he planned on telling her that.


	9. Chapter 9

Erin looked around her as Bruce made himself comfortable. Signs of his wealth were all around her. The leather armchairs across from them, the plush couch they sat on, the two lamps on the exquisite end tables cost more than all the furniture in her apartment. The oriental vase sitting by the entrance was three times the value of her car. One of his paintings would comfortably pay the rent on a place twice the size of where she lived.

Two of them would keep her comfortable for the next ten years.

Even his ratty pair of sweatpants and plain white t-shirt were of a far superior quality. Bruce Wayne didn't need to buy his clothes from a secondhand thrift store. _His robe's probably from Ralph Lauren, Armani or Versace,_ she thought as she burrowed deeper into its velvety folds. Not that it mattered who designed it, really. She was just grateful he wrapped it around her. The material smelled faintly of whatever soap and aftershave he used. She breathed deep, feeling the knots of tension slowly beginning to uncurl, and allowing her to breathe more normally.

As her mind startled to settle, Erin found herself wondering if she had done the right thing in coming here. Bruce had more than enough baggage of his own. He didn't need hers dumped on top of his. Sure, he assured her that he was fine with her coming here, but was he really? Was he merely being kind because of what happened to Ethan? She couldn't be absolutely for sure. Same as she wasn't sure that he wasn't trying to repay her kindness in helping him by being there for her.

The one thing she couldn't deny was that she wasn't safe here with Bruce _. It's not because he's Batman._ No, it went deeper than that. It felt like the world stopped on the other side of the elevator doors. Nothing could touch her here. Anyone looking for her wouldn't know where to search for her. The Tate's didn't associate with the Wayne's. Why would they? They were from different social circles. They came from different parts of Gotham. Me from the Narrows and him from the Bristol District.

However, their differences socially didn't outweigh their similarities. Erin discovered many things in common with Bruce as he recuperated at her apartment. She could drop the mask she habitually wore and just be herself with him. She could grieve for Ethan without worrying about how it made her look. She could rail and rant about the injustice. Vent her rage about the failings of the police without fear that she'd be harshly judged or chastised for her thoughts and opinions.

Bruce didn't make her feel as if her thoughts and feelings didn't matter. He understood why she felt as she did. He felt largely the same way she did. _It's why he became Batman_ , she thought as she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. _He saw all the corruption, pain, and desperation. He chose to step up and do something about it._

Unlike the majority of Gotham's high society who believed that writing a check was all it took to fix Gotham's myriad of problems. Money helped. Erin couldn't deny that it didn't. However, it was going to take more than money to solve mostGotham's criminal problem. _The city needs good men like him, and like Ethan to fight those who want control of it_.

That's it, she realized as Bruce let out a small sigh. _I can get justice for Ethan, as well as honor his memory by fighting against those who want to condemn Batman for the deaths of DA Dent and ADA Dawes_. She could search for the evidence that proved the Joker the mastermind behind both Ethan's death and the first Batman. Find the one who carried out his orders.

Prove the city still needed her silent protector.

For that to happen, though, she'd need Bruce to help her. He could point her in the right direction. Tell her what to look for. Help her find the missing pieces that completed the puzzle. If he was willing to help her, of course. Bruce made his opinions about his continuing as Batman perfectly known while he recovered. Helping her save others from suffering what she was would also help him save himself. _Not that he thinks he needs saving_ , she thought as she studied him through lowered lashes.

She found herself startled by how much he changed since she saw him last. His face was leaner, the hollows in his cheeks suggesting he was not eating. His cheeks and the strong line of his jaw was shadowed by a scruffy beard that made him seem older than she knew he was. Dark circles ghosted his eyes, attesting to many sleepless nights, and a wealth of pain and misery.

The dashing Prince of Gotham's high society had been replaced by a man stooped by grief, haunted by what he perceived as his own failures, and dogged by guilt. His belief that he was the cause of the state of things in Gotham was an argument they had plenty of times while he was recuperating at her place.

It was an argument Erin absolutely refused to allow the dratted man to win.

She was about to chastise Bruce, again, for his blaming himself for deaths that were on the head of the sick freak rightfully sitting in a cell at Blackgate when a delicate china mug passed into her view. She glanced first at it, and then up into the kind and sympathetic face of Bruce's butler, Alfred. Her lips curved into a grateful smile as she reached out and gently took the cup from him.

"Thank you." She slowly sipped at the slightly sweetened brew. "Chamomile?" she questioned with a slightly lifted brow. "With just a bit of honey to sweeten it?"

"I thought a bit of something soothing would be appreciated, Miss."

"And did you lace you-know-who's with something to help with that knee he doesn't think we know is throbbing like a bad tooth right now?" she asked over the rim over her cup.

Alfred gave her a slight wink before saying cheerily, "He wouldn't bloody well drink it if he suspected that it contained something that might be beneficial to him in it."

Bruce slanted a slightly amused look at them.

"She's only been here twenty minutes and already you're teaming up with her against me?"

"Forgive me for saying so, sir," the butler said while handing his employer a cup of tea. "But you need someone other than an old man to fuss over you."

"You do enough mothering for the both of you, Alfred."

"That may be, Master Bruce," he agreed with a small smile. "But I don't have the way with you that Miss Tate does."

"That's because she bullies and badgers me until she gets her way."

"If you weren't always such an ass about taking things to help with your pain and discomfort I wouldn't have to bully and badger you."

"Erin..." Cool brown eyes shifted to her. "I only have one question for you."

"Sure." She lowered her cup. "What is it, Bruce?"

"Did you bring any of those books of yours with you?"

"Books?" She gave him a quizzical look. "What books are you talking about?"

"The ones that you like to use when you want to torture me."

"I ran out of the house without shoes or a jacket," she pointed out in a wry tone. "Do you honestly think I had time to grab any of my books on homeopathic remedies?"

"It wouldn't surprise me if you had."

"Comfort yourself," she lightly said. "They're all at home."

"So." A small smile graced his lips. "There are small favors still being granted for a former crime fighter."

Erin harrumphed. "I thought we weren't getting into this topic?"

"What topic?"

"The one about you being a former crime fighter?"

"I am a former crime fighter." He propped his left leg up on a pillow. "My days… ouch!" Erin immediately slid over and began to massage the affected joint. He tried to nudge her hands away, but she smacked them and continued rubbing his knee and thigh. "Erin, stop fussing over me."

"I like fussing over you."

He liked her fussing over him, too. He just refused to admit it. Oh no, there was no way in hell Bruce Wayne was going to admit how much he liked having her take care of him. _Blasted man would sooner saw his leg off with a rusty and dull butter knife than confess to that particular sin._

"You need to take care of you now."

"I am."

"We should be fussing over you." He reached for her hands again, but she swatted them away. He glowered at her. "You just learned your brother is dead. You shouldn't be worrying about me or trying to take care of me."

"Bruce," she said quietly. "Have you ever stopped to consider that my fussing over you is my way of dealing with Ethan's death?"

"How does fussing over me help you to deal with your brother's death?" He lifted one dark brow. "Isn't that just avoiding the situation?"

"It's a bit of deflection, maybe," she admitted with a nod. "But I'm neither avoiding what happened to Ethan or my feelings about it."

_Unlike you_ , she added silently. _You're avoiding dealing with your pain by locking it away where you don't have to deal with it._ And that, as she well knew, was a recipe for disaster.

"If it's not avoiding what happened or your feelings about it, then what is it?" His head cocked slightly. "Because that's what it looks like you're doing to me."

"Maybe what I'm choosing to do is something that helps me counteract the pain. Much like..." Her lips curved into a smile. "You did when you chose to become Batman."

"I became Batman for an entirely different reason, Erin."

"Tell me why you became Batman then," she urged as she continued massaging his knee. "Please, I'd like to hear the answer."

_And to find out if my suspicions about why are correct._

...

Alfred heard Miss Tate's request as he finished wiping up the dollops of water she left in her wake. He glanced at Master Bruce to gauge his reaction to her inquiry. He recognized that closed-off expression. Master Bruce tended to adopt that look when he was among his social peers. He liked to call it his Batman look. Alfred thought this was when Bruce was his most real. Many assumed that Batman was the mask, but he learned long ago it was the other way around. Bruce Wayne was the mask and Batman the real man.

Bruce fought a battle now that Alfred couldn't help him with. He was on his own here. He, alone, had to decide if he'd share with Miss Tate why he donned a cape and cowl and paraded across the city's rooftops in pursuit of Gotham's criminals. Outside of him and Mr. Fox, only one other person ever knew Bruce Wayne was Batman.

And that, Alfred knew, was because Miss Dawes had been the only woman Bruce ever cared for enough to share the truth about his nocturnal profession with. Then the Joker ended her life in an act of such cruelty it left him and the rest of Gotham reeling. Her death in that explosion would haunt Master Bruce for the rest of his life. As would the letter Miss Dawes left for him to give Master Bruce would weigh on him for the rest of his. _Miss Dawes accepted his being Batman, but she couldn't be with him because he was Batman._

Something Master Bruce wouldn't ever find out about. Not if Alfred had anything to say about it. He'd never learn about the letter that Miss Dawes wrote to him. The one that told him she was going to marry Mister Dent despite loving him. The one he burned to spare his employer that pain. Master Bruce already carried enough grief over her death. He didn't need to have this added to it.

Miss Tate didn't feel as Miss Dawes did, though. No, she believed in Master Bruce. In his being Batman. She saw him as a symbol of hope _._ The hero that the city desperately needed. _Now more than ever if the Joker has someone murdering people for him._ Silently, he urged his employer to open up, to share with her about why he became a costumed vigilante. It was a tale Alfred fully believed a woman like Erin Tate would be more than capable of understanding and accepting. Especially after losing her brother.

_She doesn't see a criminal when she looks at you_ , he told him silently. _She sees a man who did what he thought was necessary to prevent others from suffering as he has._

Finally, he heard Master Bruce sigh, and say in a low murmur, "I became Batman because…"


	10. Chapter 10

Gordon sat in his office three mornings later. He felt absolutely terrible. After he left Erin Tate's apartment, he drove around the city now his to protect. Everywhere he looked, he saw something or someone who the Joker's actions affected. By the time he returned to the station house it was after five in the morning. Another body showed up an hour later, murdered in the same way as Ethan Tate, and the first victim. Pinned to his chest with an ice pick was an ice pick.

He found himself wanting nothing more than to share the responsibility with the masked figure he unknowingly came to rely on during those few brief years. He'd love nothing more than to go up to that roof, flip on that spotlight, and hand the cards over to that dark figure. Let him sort out just why those bodies were lying on a slab in the morgue.

He couldn't do that though.

Why?

Because Batman was gone.

Sacrificed to give Gotham what it needed most: _hope_.

Batman was everything the city needed. They just didn't know it. That was the secret he shared with the man behind that dark visage. Only they knew the truth about Harvey Dent. They saw the white knight fall. Twisted by the man still playing with the city. How the Joker orchestrated the death of Officer Tate he didn't know.

He aimed to find out, though.

Gordon looked at the card in his hands. A combination of stress and lack of sleep made the card blurry. He shook it off as he grabbed his mug and swallowed another mouthful of stale coffee. His eyebrows lowered over the bridge of his nose as he tried to figure out just what the Joker's endgame was. _What is the point of this_? _What's he hoping to prove here_?

He studied the words scrawled across the card:

**ARE YOU GOING TO TELL THE TRUTH ABOUT DENT OR AM I?**

What did the Joker want? Beyond screwing with them, of course. Creating anarchy and mischief was his signature. This, though, made no sense. The bastard won. He took the best of them and brought him down to his level. What more could he want?

"Jim, you can't blame yourself."

Gordon ignored Bullock. He was wrong. He did need to blame himself. He shouldn't have allowed this damn mess to happen. He shouldn't have agreed with Batman's plan. He shouldn't have covered up what happened that night at the warehouse. He should never have sold out this city's costumed hero for a man who had forsaken everything the three of them worked for in the end.

There was a way Harvey Dent could still be presented as the hero that this city needed. He fully believed that. Same as he believed that there was a way Batman could be shown as Gotham's true savior and not have it affect Dent's place as this city's white knight.

"Jim, this isn't your fault!"

Gordon shook his head wearily. "We will have to agree to disagree about that, Harvey."

"Why're you being so stubborn about this?"

"Because whoever killed Officer Tate is free and can continue murdering people for that damned clown." Gordon's jaw clenched. "And he wouldn't be if we hadn't allowed the mayor to force us into focusing our energies on searching for a man as elusive as the wind."

"We're doing our jobs, Jim." He slammed his palm on the desk. "Our jobs!"

"Our jobs are to make sure the people of this city are safe."

"They will be once we get that caped freak behind bars."

"No, they won't be." Gordon looked again at the card. "Figuring out who is working for the Joker is our primary goal as of this moment."

"Hell, I won't argue with you about that." Harvey grunted and reached for the mug of coffee he brought with him into the office "What about the Bat and his associates?"

"Locating who is helping to pass his messages along takes precedence over the mayor wanting us to find Batman and any of the people who might have helped him."

"Mayor ain't gonna like this any," he said. "He was pretty specific about you finding Batman and his associates and bringing them to justice."

"The mayor is not the one who now has two bodies, one a rookie cop, on his hands," Gordon gritted. "That takes precedence over what he wants."

The door behind Bullock pushed open, and Detective Smith poked his head in. "Commissioner?"

"Yes?"

"Mayor's office for you on line one. Says it's important."

Of course, it was important. Everything with their mayor was important. Gordon let loose a world-weary sigh. There were some days where he really loved his job. Then there were days, much like this one, where he hated the bureaucracy that came with it.

"Thank you, Detective." He reached for the phone on his desk as he looked at Bullock. "I want you to get a team together and go to Blackgate. Interrogate everybody. Somebody is bound to know just how it is that the Joker is getting messages out."

Bullock lumbered to his feet. "Sure thing, Jim."

Gordon then lifted the receiver of the phone and said, "Gordon."

...

Blackgate Prison was a maximum-security penitentiary located upon one of the smaller islands in Gotham Harbor. It replaced Arkham Asylum as the place where people diagnosed with some sort of mental illness got sent. They sent all criminals here, mental disease or defect no longer a standing get out of jail card in the city of Gotham. The Joker got sent there after his capture. Nobody trusted him so he occupied a ward almost entirely by himself. His mercurial nature, his wanton lust for violence, and his complete disregard for human life made him the most dangerous man to ever grace the prison. To them, he defined the sociopathic killer.

Nobody knew who the man behind the bone-white face really was. Most criminals had documented birth names, school records, hospital reports, and lengthy histories that explained who and what they were. Many of them lived relatively normal lives before becoming criminals.

Not the Joker.

There was no idea where he was from or how he really acquired his hideous scars. A few unsubstantiated facts, plenty in the way of speculation, and some lint in his pocket were all there was. For that reason, his contact with the outside world got cut off. Save for the guards who patrolled his ward, his lawyer, and his court-appointed therapist, he saw nobody.

His cell was devoid of any modern amenities and luxuries. There was a metal cot, a table, and the standard sink-and-toilet combination. Everything inside the cell was either bolted to the floor or secured to the wall. There were no shelves with books, magazines or newspapers. There were no TV or board games with which he could pass the time.

Not that he needed anything to occupy himself with.

He kept himself plenty entertained by sitting cross-legged on the floor and imagining the shock, and horror that'd be on the faces of all the people when they discovered the truth about their hero. He laughed and was still laughing when his guard came to check on him.

...

Doctor Harleen Quinzel gazed up at the mammoth gray walls and foreboding guard towers as she was escorted intoBlackgate. Her white lab coat, candy apple red skirt, and candy cane striped blouse caused her to stand out among the sea of hideous orange jumpsuits and drab blue guard garb. She radiated youthful exuberance, confidence, and intelligence. She carried a small brown briefcase in one hand, a clipboard and some yellow folders in the other.

After being checked in and given her visitor's badge, she walked down the middle of a multi-level cell block. Rows of inmates, many of whom had not seen a woman in a long while, hooted and hollered at her from behind the locked doors of their cells. Obscene innuendo's, catcalls and whistles followed her as she made her way down the long, dreary corridor.

One hulking convict, as ugly as he was wide, tried to grab for her but three guards swarmed him, hitting him with stun batons to get him into his cell while the rest of the monkeys howled at the top of their lungs. Harleen didn't let their antics faze her. She just kept walking.

"Why're you letting a broad in here?" The guard in charge of the ward where her patient was being kept looked askance at her approach. "You gone nuts or something, Lou?"

"Nobody else will come and shrink the Joker," the warden explained as he signaled for Harleen to wait a moment. "Now open the door, Jack."

"Whatever you say," was Jack's surly reply.

Two minutes later, they passed through the security door into a ward much more silent than the one they just left. Harleen passed a cell and spotted Doctor Jonathan Crane standing in the middle of it, caressing the spine of a thick tome he held with one long finger.

He turned at the sound of their approach, his large, pale eyes mildly curious behind the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. Though nowhere as pale as herself, Crane's skin still reminded her of the color of fresh cream. It made his thick shock of dark hair stand out in vivid contrast.

A brilliant psychiatrist and chemist, Crane focused his research upon the study of fear, particularly phobic fears and their causes. His doctoral thesis on the subject was still considered the definitive analysis on the subject. She studied his research as an undergraduate and could admit that she felt a certain fascination while reading a number of the articles that he had written on the subject.

She'd have loved to stop and engage the doctor in conversation, but the warden cleared his throat. Harleen kept right on walking, glancing back only once to give Crane a small, apologetic smile. _One day, though_ , she promised herself as she followed the warden down the corridor.

They entered the ward where the Joker was being kept until trial. As they approached his cell, Harleen noticed he sat cross-legged on the floor, seemingly deep in thought, and completely unaware of their approach. However, it was all a ruse. An act. _He's acutely aware of our presence_ , _he's just pretending docility and submissiveness to lure us into a false sense of security_.

"Hey, get up," the warden ordered as he banged on the cell door. "Your shrink's here for your appointment."

A frown creased his brow when the Joker didn't even bother to look up.

"Did you hear me?" He moved closer to the cell. "I said to get up. Your shrink's here."

The Joker finally glanced up. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The same calm, almost pleasant expression was on his scarred face. However, something about the Joker's manner seemed... off. _He's planning something. But what_?

His mangled lips twisted into a bone-chilling smirk. His eyes became sharper. Predatory. Harleen felt as if she stared at a wolf or hyena about to attack. _He's gonna kill the warden and use me to stage his escape_ , she realized. Well, she'd end that, she decided, fingers closing around her clipboard.

"Warden, I can conduct my interview from out here," she said, eyes never leaving the Joker. "You don't gotta open his cell."

"You sure, Doctor Quinn?"

"Positive."

"Well, alrighty then." He nodded towards the office they passed on their way to the Joker's cell. "I'll go see if Lou has an extra chair you can use."

"Thank you."

"Sure."

He turned and ambled away. The Joker's eyes slowly shifted to her. His displeasure was clear.

"Oh, you," he muttered. "You just had to go and spoil my fun, didn't you?"

Harleen tossed her head and met his glare with her own.

"Ain't gonna let you use me to get outta your cell."

"Ah, but I wasn't planning on using you to get _out_ of my cell." He giggled. "I was planning on putting you _in_ my cell."

"Why?" Her brow furrowed. "What is it you have planned?"

"Planned? Do I look like a man who plans anything?" He shook his head. "No, Doctor Quinn. Plans are stifling. I prefer to just... _do_ things."

"And what is it you plan to do if you escape?"

"Why, I'm going to reveal the truth about Batman."

"Truth?" One brow lifted. "What truth?"

"You'll see." His laugh sent chills down her spine. "I'll show you. I'll show all of you."


End file.
